


Any Other Night – 5/9 - Decisions

by motsureru



Series: Any Other Night [5]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-24
Updated: 2007-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Broken Glass, a Sylar/Mohinder-centric continuation after Season 1.  Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Night – 5/9 - Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _This didn’t count. Not at all. Until Mohinder was awake Sylar could imagine this a dream; he was not conscious, merely basking in some vision of fuzzy edges and ungraspable pleasures._

   


.5 Decisions

            “Are you even listening?”

            “…”

            “Hey, Pres, I’m talking to you.”

            Preston looked up from the papers on his desk with a startled breath, eyes settling on Murphy’s worried face. Murphy looked good today: neat hair, a nice shirt, pressed pants, even a tie, for God’s sake. When had Murphy started looking like the cop and Preston started looking like the dead-end cubicle chum on the street corner?

            A heavy sigh. “Yeah, yeah, I’m listening, Murphy.”

            Raising an eyebrow, his partner thought twice about that. “What did I say?”

            “…My coffee’s cold?”

            “Adrian, there’s no coffee on your desk,” Murphy said a bit softer. He put a hand on Preston’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. “I said good morning, Pres. And I asked if you slept here last night. You look like shit.”

            Preston lifted a hand and pinched between his eyes. “Yeah, I slept here last night. But I’m fine.” He wanted to shake Murphy off, but he felt the need to be more polite than that, no matter how disgruntled and disheveled he felt. 

            Pulling up a chair, Murphy sat at Preston’s side, eyeing him warily. “You don’t look good, Pres. Everyone around here knows it. This case, it’s a dead end. You’re too wrapped up in it. If you’re not careful…”

            “I know my limits, Murphy,” Preston shot back, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. Several vertebrae cracked, and suddenly he felt old. The detective sighed again. “I’m stuck, Murph. I’m really stuck.”

            Murphy rubbed the back of his neck, watching his partner with a sympathetic gaze. “I know how you feel about this case, Preston… it’s under your skin. But the captain… he’s talking about reassigning me. He’s talking about pulling this case. You’ve gotta drop it before it comes to that. Think of your record.”

            A bitter smirk played on Preston’s lips, then. “My record? This case is so much bigger than me, Murph. So much bigger. I’m stuck because I’ve got the next step… but I’m not sure if it’s a step I want to take.”

            His partner leaned back in his seat, brows furrowing. “What are you talking about, Pres? The CSI didn’t find anything, did they?”

            Preston ran a hand over his short hair. “It found me. I got a visit from an FBI agent. Hanson is her name.”          

            Murphy’s eyes went wide and he leaned in again, glancing from side to side as if the telephones ringing and the coffee makers brewing might overhear. “FBI, Preston? Shit. What do the Feds have to do with this?”

            “She told me just what you said, Murph. It’s a dead end. She said if I don’t have anything solid, I should drop it and move on before it takes me down, too.” Preston reached over and grabbed the papers on his desk, pulling them into his lap. “She confirmed the FBI was looking for a guy named ‘Sylar’… someone we confirmed to be Gabriel Gray. Some kind of serial killer, taking brains and using bizarre unexplained methods of killing.”

            Murphy blinked several times in amazement, dumbfounded by the sheer possibility. They were small-time compared to this. “Why did they stop searching? Did they hit a wall, too?”

            “Sort of,” Preston continued with a frown. “A while back, you know that incident in Kirby Plaza? She said more than one person present, Mohinder Suresh, in particular, blamed it on a man named Sylar. Suresh was there, at the same time as Gray. Suresh withheld that information from us. Either Suresh was a turncoat or this proves he’s an accomplice. But either way, the Feds pulled the plug on the case all together. She almost lost her job over it.”

            Swallowing, Murphy glanced down at the papers in Preston’s hands. “Then what do we have to go on? You wouldn’t be hesitating if it was solid, Pres.”

            Preston shook his head slowly. “She gave me a name and a number. A former partner of hers on the case said that this guy kept Sylar hidden once, but they didn’t pull through anything conclusive. This guy reappeared at the Kirby Plaza incident, too. A company man by the name of Bennet. Hanson told me that, if anyone knew something about Mohinder Suresh or Sylar, she’d bet it would be this man. He knows _something_ he’s not saying.” Preston looked over to Murphy, hands tightening on the papers in his hand. “The question is… how deep do these ties run, Chuck? Worse than that, who’s protecting whom?”

            The morning was bliss. For the first time in what seemed like his entire life, there was more concern in Sylar’s mind for the warmth beneath the covers than for the tasks of the day that would take this slice of Heaven away. He awoke to the steady beat of Mohinder’s heart at his side, and did so leisurely, without alarm. 

            The light in the room was still scarce, but not without its charm; a sweetness gleaned from morning rays that seeped from the edges of curtains. Mohinder was to Sylar’s right, still, turned onto his side with his back facing Sylar as he’d become accustomed to sleeping. No matter. Sylar turned, too, and moving slowly enough to keep the comforter sufficiently over their shoulders, Sylar slid his arm around Mohinder’s body and pressed close, feeling for the first time a more subtle embrace of flesh to flesh. He memorized curves and angles, the smoothness of Mohinder’s skin.

            Mohinder’s body was warm and soft, pliant and relaxed. Sylar grazed his hand slowly up to rest against the man’s abdomen, and with an unknowingly graceful arch nuzzled his nose into Mohinder’s hair. This didn’t count. Not at all. Until Mohinder was awake, Sylar could imagine this was a dream; he was not conscious, merely basking in some vision of fuzzy edges and ungraspable pleasures. There was no meaning, no repercussions. Only gratification.

            But no, this was very real. Sylar could inhale Mohinder’s scent, press his lips against the back of his neck, taste salty skin. He could stroke the silky black hairs running down Mohinder’s navel and feel the way just touching this man’s body aroused in him the desire to devour it all over again. 

            Sylar kissed slowly, unhurriedly, at the back of Mohinder’s neck. It was a privilege he had never been allowed before, a touch that Mohinder would have turned from. And even though Mohinder was hardly awake to stop him, Sylar felt it was his prerogative now, his right by means of conquest. Mohinder was his. Now he had almost everything.

            The darker man stirred from those touches, and Sylar listened as Mohinder stretched slowly, each toe curling with the movement of his legs. Sylar stopped his mouth, but let it remain. His arm tightened possessively. When he heard Mohinder’s eyelids lift, Sylar smiled.

            “Good morning,” he whispered against Mohinder’s skin.

            The other man’s shoulders tightened for a split second, as though he’d forgotten the night before, but then he slowly relaxed. “…Morning,” –came the wispy, sleep-stifled reply. Mohinder’s arm shifted for a second, lifting and then falling again, unsure of what to do with Sylar’s own arm wrapped beneath it and holding him. Mohinder turned carefully until he was on his back, head craned to look at Sylar behind his sand-rimmed eyes.

            Mohinder merely watched, took in that contented, feline expression on Sylar’s face. He’d never imagined such a gaze before on this man. Mohinder felt keenly aware of the callused palm against his navel, of the half-hard length pressing against his thigh. And yet he didn’t mind, terribly. It felt all too comfortable to wake like this.

            “Sleep well?” –Sylar’s words interrupted his thoughts.

            A gradual smile worked its way across Mohinder’s lips. “Very.”

            Fingertips dragged slowly up Mohinder’s stomach and abdomen, tracing his skin ticklishly until that hand touched his jaw. Sylar turned Mohinder’s face carefully, like he was made of glass, and touched his lips to the corner of Mohinder’s mouth. “You can shower first,” he offered, letting his fingers drift away.

            Inhaling delicately, Mohinder nodded. He pushed the covers back, pausing to run a hand through his mop of curls and yawn, and then exited the bed with an odd lack of shame for his nudity. Sylar observed this display with a certain sense of pride, listening as the bathroom door closed.

            The first thing Mohinder did was look at himself in the mirror. He looked more rested than he expected, and he felt even more relaxed than that. He’d had the release of more than one kind of tension; something he supposed he should be thankful for now. As he brushed his teeth, Mohinder let his mind wander back, considering all that had passed the night before. It was easier to believe, now, that Sylar wanted some form of redemption. That Sylar was, in fact, reaching out to connect to something previously deemed impossible. 

            Sylar could fake Zane Taylor’s niceties, his shyness and his open nature, Mohinder reasoned as he turned on the shower and stepped beneath the spray. But what he didn’t think Sylar could fake were the moans, the pleas, the unspoken requests to love and be loved that he appeared to so desperately cling to when those moments made themselves known. 

            Closing his eyes, Mohinder recalled the last trip, the showers in dirty motel rooms he’d taken then. The times when he’d pressed his hands and his forehead to icy tiles and yearned more than anything for Zane to do something, to say something that meant they could somehow share a feeling like this one. Mohinder had wanted the gazes Sylar was giving him, the strong arms to keep pushing him forward but hold him back in an embrace. He had wanted this, the push and pull. And now he had it. The cost was an uncertainty: that last, nagging insecurity that said _He is still who he is._ Mohinder hated it. He loved it. He cursed it. And now he craved it. 

            But couldn’t he cherish it, too, as long as he was able?

            There would always be time for doubts.

            There would always be time for doubts.

            And when Sylar heard the shower erupt into action he knew that the time for no more could come. His vision, his dream was over, and reality set back in. Danger was upon him, and Sylar knew it was a danger of losing himself. There was nothing to be had, like this, drowning in Mohinder’s skin and scent. Just like the last morning in Mohinder’s apartment, he’d find himself slow one day, submitting to some contentedness with this man, and then, when Mohinder came back to his senses, Sylar would be left behind with no self left and no ambition.

            He had to prove that he was stronger than that. That, even as they played this game and circled each other in breathless kisses that Mohinder was not, in fact, the one stealing the breath. Sylar’s game of letting Mohinder inside was meant to trap him there, not be trapped by how tightly his desire clung to the bars, wanting in, too.

            Turning over and reaching off the side of the bed, Sylar grabbed Mohinder’s suitcase, yanking it up onto the mattress. He opened it rapidly, eyes narrowed as his hands dug deeply through the clothing until the man’s laptop could be found. He tossed it onto the bed, lifting the top and hitting the power button before he returned to the pile of clothes, sifting through it purposefully. He was rewarded by the clack of his fingernail against something plastic within a sock. With a smirk, he drew the item out, turning the turquoise rectangle carefully between his fingers. He sat back down before the laptop, logging onto the guest account.

            Sylar listened closely to the shower to ensure his window of time. It would be enough. Connecting the USB drive to the back, his eyes scanned the password screen that appeared. A simple task, to his mind. But it didn’t matter what he innately understood; the password was all too obvious for him.

            _Shanti._

            He pulled open as many directories as he could until he finally found the right one within the program.

            Beautiful.

            It was like Christmas, white and red, locations and ‘deceased’ smattering the black screen. He had only to select the few he saw within a day’s distance and pick the one he liked, like a fish from a tank. There were two or three in areas that might be close. He committed them to memory and hit the power button before the water turned off. Quickly replacing all as it had been before, Sylar closed the suitcase and lowered it to the floor. 

            He reached onto the side table for a map they’d set out the night before. He opened it and folded back the desired area, standing from the bed to fetch a towel from the small laundry closet next to the bathroom. As he was wrapping the towel around himself, he heard the bathroom door unlock. Mohinder stepped out, curls damp and clinging about his face, a towel held closed at his waist. Sylar glanced over, lifting up the map he’d fetched. “We have a lot of road to cover today, huh?” he offered.

            Mohinder nodded with a slight smile, walking around to the bed. “Yes, another late night, I think.” Mohinder lifted his suitcase and sought out a fresh set of clothing. Sylar, meanwhile, leaned against a nearby table, eyes scanning over the map. _Lawler_ – too far north. _Onslow_ – too soon, too close to the border. _Monteith_ \-- … _Monteith._ Sylar licked his lips softly.

            “We should probably keep away from Route 80 once we get close to Des Moines,” Sylar suggested, frowning thoughtfully as he gave the map a critical examination. “Back roads have been good… but there are enough smaller highways like 44 that work well enough to reach Portsmouth. Whole state is practically a grid system.”

            Mohinder slipped on his boxers while Sylar’s eyes were distracted. “You think so? I haven’t taken a look at the map yet… but if you think you’ve found a better way, then you can be navigator.” Mohinder smiled almost lightheartedly as he looked up. “It’d give you something to do besides sleep, anyway.”

            Sylar lowered the map and raised an eyebrow at Mohinder, a small smirk playing across his face. “There are plenty of things I could do. Besides facilitate awkward silences, that is.” He took a moment to scan Mohinder’s figure up and down meaningfully. His eyes stopped at one point, narrowing a little.

            Catching that gaze, Mohinder stared back. “…What?”

            Sylar folded the map in two, setting it aside, and crossed the space between them. He stopped in front of Mohinder and reached down, taking hold of the edge of the man’s white boxers.

            “-H-Hey! What are you doing?” Mohinder stuttered, leaning back and away. He looked down as Sylar flipped back the waistband of his boxers and tilted his head, eyes inspecting closely. Across Mohinder’s brown skin were fresh bruises, bands of a purplish color that wrapped smoothly around his hips and marked Sylar’s reckless grasp the night before. 

            Sylar traced his fingertips affectionately across the marks and looked from them up to Mohinder, gaze carrying that dark, suggestive hint not unlike a predator to prey. “Do they hurt?” he inquired, stroking his thumbs in slow circles over the flesh.

            The urge to squirm was strong, but Mohinder held still, color rising faintly in his face, thankfully well-hidden by his complexion. “Not really… they’re a bit tender, maybe. I’ll survive,” he murmured.

            The smile that lit up Sylar’s face was almost childishly pleased. He gave one hip a little squeeze and lifted his other hand to Mohinder’s face. “We’re even then,” he replied, “for the marks on my back.” Sylar winked, drew his thumb softly across Mohinder’s lips, and then released him, heading to the bathroom.

            Mohinder let out a breath after the touch. Was he being flirted with?

            Sylar shut the door behind himself and lifted his eyes to the mirror. Tonight he’d do it. Tonight he’d prove to himself what he was still capable of; he’d become reacquainted with murder. Complicated, uncontrollable feelings for Mohinder- if he wasn’t careful they would be his destruction. Now Paula Gramble, tucked safely away in quaint little Monteith, Iowa, would have to die. Sylar had to know that he could still do it. With Mohinder riling his desire unchecked, with Mohinder making him smile more honestly every second, with Mohinder breaking down his thirst for greater control, for blood — Mohinder was stealing his very self as he knew it. Now Sylar had something to lose.


End file.
